A nervous, fractious brute will go as well, if not better, with a woman
than with a man on him.
It is, I suppose, a want of independence in the feminine character that
makes most women follow some particular man. They are nearly always
beautifully mounted, and have keen enough observation to measure the
height of a fence, and see the weak place. You will hear a man say to
his wife,--"I must give Favourite a turn, dear, she is getting sticky,"
and he will take his wife's mare, an accomplished hunter, wise as a
chaperon, and ride her with a cutting whip. It is probably the result
of always following another horse, which has taken the spirit of
emulation out of the mare, robbing her of a sense of responsibility and
a chance of being among the first few in a fine run.
A man seldom rides as hard if he is followed by a lady. He loses his
dash.
At one time no woman could fall without a certainty of being dragged by
her habit skirt, or her stirrup; but now, at anyrate, that danger has
been removed, by Scott's[1] apron skirt, and Mayhew's[1] patent side
saddle.
[1] Scott in South Molton Street; and Mayhew in Seymour
Street, Edgeware Road.
I saw a narrow escape once, some years ago. A young lady of indifferent
nerve, mounted by a male relative on an uncongenial horse, trotted
slowly down hill to a high fence to see what was on the other side. The
horse, supposing he was meant to jump the fence, not unnaturally
proceeded to do so, much against the lady's will. Her weak resistance
succeeded in landing him on his head, in a deep ditch on the other
side. She fell off, and was hung up by her habit skirt. The horse
recovered himself, and, feeling a heavy weight on one side of him, was
seized with a panic of fear, and, laying back his ears, thundered along
in the ditch which had a gravelly bottom. A gentleman, unconscious of
what had happened, rode down to the fence from the other side, and
cannoned upon landing against the loose horse and prostrate lady; they
all rolled over together. As the lady's head had apparently been
bumping the grass bank for some twenty yards, we supposed she was
killed; but, on extrication, she was discovered to be unhurt. The man
had broken his collar-bone. Her habit was of the old-fashioned kind,
and did not give way.
Everyone has seen similar casualties, and men, as well as women,
dragged on their heads; it is the most alarming part of hunting.
I am told that there is a great art in falling, and certainly it
requires judgment to know when to hold on and when to let go of the
reins. There can be nothing more exasperating to a man than to loose
his horse in a trifling accident, when he has a first-rate place at the
beginning of a run. A friend of mine looking over a dealer's yard
stopped before a flea-bitten mare. He said he would like to see her run
out, as she looked like suiting him. The dealer replied,--"I could not
honestly recommend her to you, sir, she would run away with you."
"But," said my friend, "she is the very animal I want! The last one I
had ran away without me."
Loose horses are trials that go far to proving your character; you may
make a friend for life by catching his horse. There are, of course,
occasions when it would be mere waste of time attempting anything of
the sort, when a stupid animal careers wildly away in the opposite
direction of hounds; but I am often struck by the way self-centred
people let the easiest opportunities pass of serving their neighbours.
I have been delighted by seeing men, purposely looking the other way,
punished by the confiding animal going straight up to them, making it
impossible, with the best show of clumsiness, to avoid bringing him
back to his grateful owner, who perspiring, runs across the ridge and
furrow, in breeches and boots of the most approved fashion.
There is one other and last side of fox-hunting with which I will
conclude.
R. L. Stevenson says, "Drama is the poetry of conduct, and Romance the
poetry of circumstances." There is only one sport that combines drama
and romance; the sport for kings. There are days when your very soul
would seem to penetrate the grass, when, with the smell of damp earth
in your nostrils, and the rhythm of blood-stirring stride underneath
you, you forget everything, yourself included. These days live with
you. They console you for the monotony of Swiss scenery. They translate
you out of fierce Indian sunshine; they rise up between you and the
gaslight, and shut out the grey grinding streets. You wake up to ask
the housemaid half unconsciously whether it is freezing; the answer
leaves you uncertain, and you jump out of bed. There is a damp fog on
the window, which you hastily wipe away, to see the paths are brown,
and the slates wet; there is no sun and no wind. You hear the tramp of
the stable boy's feet below your room, and snatches of a song whistled
in the yard, you can see the clothes line hung with stable breeches,
and a very old dog poking about the court. You tie your tie, left over
right, with the precision of habit, and, seizing your letters, run down
to breakfast. You are independent of your host; he has a hack. You ask
your hostess what she is going to do with herself, while she walks
across the yard to see you start in the buggy. You let the boy drive
while you read your letters. You thrust them into your pocket and bow
faintly over a high coat collar as you swing past the different riders
and second horsemen. You see your horses at a corner of the road, and
are told you cannot ride Molly Bawn, as she "'it 'erself" in the
night--an unsatisfactory way horses valuable have of incapacitating
themselves. You get on your horse and ride through a line of bridle
gates till you find yourself in a bewildering throng of people and
horses, just outside the village. Ladies leaning over their splash
boards, talking to fine young gentlemen, unconscious of their shaft,
which is tickling a horse of great value, the groom leading it, too
anxious about his own mount to observe the danger. Children backing
into bystanders, with their habits in festoons over the crupper; ladies
standing up in their carriages divesting themselves of their wraps, and
husbands unfastening their hat boxes; dealers discreetly and
conspicuously taking their horses out of the crowd and cantering them
round the field to show their slow paces, looking down at the ground
and sitting motionless, as if unconscious of any onlookers. Hard,
weather-beaten men in low crowned hats, with double snaffles in their
horses' mouths, are feeling their girths, and ladies in long loose
coats explaining to their pilots that they wear their strap on their
heels, not on their toes. Your host comes up now, and you wonder, to
look at his hack, that he ever arrived at all. You ask as delicately as
you can what he is riding. "Old S----n," he replies, and you find
yourself criticising the winner of a former Grand National. In all this
fret and fuss Tom Firr sits like a philosopher, surrounded by the
questioning pack; vouchsafing an occasional remark to a farmer or a
patron of the hunt. At last the vast field is set in motion, and, with
an eye on Firr, you jog down the road to draw. Instead of following the
knowing ones, and standing outside the covert at an advantageous point
down-wind, you go inside and watch the hounds dancing through the
little copse, shaking the dewdrops on the undergrowth, and scattering
with indifference the startled rabbit. In perfect stillness you thread
your way slowly through the tangled tracks, your horse arching his neck
and pointing his toes as if he were stepping to the drum and fife.
There is a spring in the grass path, and a thrill in the air which
makes you lift your face to the open sky as if to receive the essence
of the day, and a blessing from the unseen sun. Suddenly, without
warning, a silver halloa rings through the air, driving the blood to
your heart, and you find yourself wheeling your horse round and
crashing through the undergrowth to a gap you had noticed as you came
along. The whole field is thundering round the cover as you jump out of
it with the last hound, and the pack makes hard for a fence of
impassable thickness. Luckily for you they turn up it, and a lagging
hound joins his friends half-way up the fence, where the growers are
thinner. The gate is locked, but the rail at the side is jumpable, and
your horse takes off accurately and lands you in the same field as
hounds. You find yourself with Firr and five or six others, who have
galloped twice your distance, to catch them. You avoid a boggy gap,
which the two riders ahead of you are making for, and catch hold of
your horse for a clean "stake-and-bound." It is down hill, and you feel
as if you never would land. You jump into a road, and nearly fall off
as your horse turns suddenly down it, following the other horses. The
hounds cross, and you are carried down the road past the few places
where you could jump out, and the people behind profit by their
position and get over where hounds crossed. You hammer along the road
with twenty people shouting "Go on!" whenever you want to stop, till an
open gate takes you into the field, where you see five or six men a
good way ahead of you. Nothing but pace serves you then, and all the
warnings in the world that there is wire, or a brook, will not turn you
from your intention to catch them again.
By luck, which you hardly deserve, the wire is loose upon the ground,
and you only twing-twang it with one shoe as you land, and are off
again before it curls like a shaving round your horse's leg.
You have put wire between you and the field, and are now free to go as
you please for the next twenty minutes. Firr and five others are your
only rivals, and they are ready to whistle a warning where the country
gets complicated.
The pack check for a moment outside a small cover, but the fox is too
tired and too hard pressed to go into it, and Firr gets their heads
down with a sound, quite impossible to spell, and five minutes after,
the hounds are tumbling over each other like a scramble at a
school-feast, and Firr holds up the fox with an expression in his face
as if he could eat him.
* * * * *
You tuck the rug round you, with your mouth full of buttered toast.
Your lamps are lit, and the sky is aglow.
"Let 'em go please. _Come!_" and with a bound and a clatter you leave
the sun behind you, and, shaving the gate-post, swing down the turnpike
home.
HORSES AND THEIR RIDERS.
BY THE DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.
Why are ladies sometimes considered nuisances out hunting? Because the
generality of riders are unfortunately in the way of their neighbours,
and have not the remotest idea of what they ought to do.
Before they inflict themselves on the hunting field, they should learn
to manage their horses, to keep out of the way, and should they wish to
jump, to ride straight at their fences, not landing too near their
pilots, and not taking anyone else's place. When once they can
accomplish so much, they will no longer be considered troublesome. In
fact, few things are more dangerous than riding in Rotten Row, simply
because the greater part of the riders have not the faintest idea of
the risks they incur. You will see both young men and young women
galloping recklessly along with a perfectly loose rein, sometimes
knocking down the unfortunate ones who happen to be in their way, and
followed by grooms who have usually even less idea of riding and finish
the mischief their owners have begun.
Then the untidy, slipshod way the riders are often turned out is a
disgrace to a country which is considered to have the best horses and
riders in the world. What must foreigners--Hungarians, for instance,
who know something of riding, of horses, and of horsemen--think of the
doubtful spectacle two-thirds of the riders present. Poor old screws,
who have usually to pull the family coach of an afternoon, broken-down
hunters, an apology for hacks, are to be seen carrying their fair
burdens, who look anything but at home in their saddles, with hair
piled up in latest but most unworkmanlike fashion, flapping blouses,
and habits that look as though night-gowns, still worn, were beneath.
Of course many people cannot afford expensive hacks, but I would sooner
any day have a broken-winded or broken-kneed screw that was well-bred
and well-shaped, than a sound one who looked an underbred, lazy,
three-cornered beast. Besides, there is no reason why anyone who can
afford a horse at all, should not have it well groomed, with neat
saddle, and brightly-burnished bit, and be at the same time smartly
turned out herself. It is as cheap to be clean as to be dirty; and a
little extra trouble will go a long way in the desired direction.
For the safety of the multitude, it would be a good thing if all people
who are going to ride or drive on the public highway were made to pass
an examination as to their capabilities, and I do not believe, if that
were so, that half of the present riders in the road would be admitted.
Children are taught to ride quite on the wrong principle. How can a
child of three understand or appreciate a ride in a pannier on some fat
Shetland's back? The age of eight years is quite soon enough for any
child to begin; before that time it is impossible for them to control
the smallest pony, and this very experience often destroys their nerve.
In buying a pony, be very sure that it is sound, with a nice light
mouth; twelve hands is quite small enough. Most children's hands are
spoilt by letting them learn to ride on a pony destitute of any mouth,
the result is they learn to hold on by the poor thing's bridle, and
anyone who does that can never ride well. Let girls first learn to
stick on a cross saddle before putting them on a side saddle, it
teaches them to sit straight, and is much better for them in every way.
Anyone with bad hands can never be a really good rider. You can go
hard, be able to ride a horse that has bad manners, such as kicking,
bucking, rearing, running away, for that is simply a matter of nerve;
but a good rider means someone whose horse always goes nicely and
kindly, who does not hang on his mouth, who knows how to make him
gallop, and can ride really well at a fence. Half the falls out hunting
come from putting your horse crookedly at the fence, and from losing
your head when he has made a mistake.
Always endeavour--should your horse come down with you, and you have
not parted company--to keep your presence of mind. Do not try to get
off, as that will probably lead to a worse accident. Leave the reins
alone, for nothing frightens a horse more when he is down than touching
his mouth with the bit. Sit quite still, and it is more than likely
that you will be able to continue your ride without the smallest
mishap, or even a dirty back.
A great deal has been said on the subject of ladies' horses. One thing
is quite certain--they cannot be too good, and for a side saddle a fine
shoulder is indispensable; for, if you ride a horse without it, the
sensation is most unpleasant. You feel as though you were sitting on
his ears. Before mounting, always see that the saddle is not put on the
top of the withers, but just behind them, so that the weight does not
fall on the top of the shoulders. Besides being less likely to give a
sore back, the rider is much more comfortable. The reason why ladies
give a sore back so often is that they ride with too long a stirrup,
and do not sit straight. Sit well to the off side, and, should you
think your saddle is not quite straight, either get someone to alter it
for you or go home, for anything is better than to have your horse laid
up for a month with a bad back. I think a well-bred horse about 15·2,
with a nice light mouth, is the nicest mount for a woman. For if one
gets a really good fencer and galloper this size, he is far better than
a big underbred horse that tires one out immediately. But, of course,
everyone has to be mounted according to her weight. A nice light weight
can see a great deal of sport on the back of a really good pony about
fourteen-hands. It is wonderful the big fences many such ponies will
contrive to get over, if they really mean business. The first pony I
ever had was a little twelve-hand Welsh mare, and there was nothing
that pony wouldn't jump or scramble over somehow. What was too high for
her she would get under. She could crawl and climb like a cat, and
gallop faster than most horses; and, when she was twenty years of age,
was as fresh as a three-year-old. In fact, my brother won three races
of five furlongs on the flat with her, against much bigger ponies. The
best thing I can wish any of our readers is to have another, whether
horse or pony, as good and as game as she was.
K. NEWCASTLE.
THE WIFE OF THE M. F. H.
BY MRS CHAWORTH MUSTERS.
If there is one calling in which a real helpmate can be of more use to
a man than any other, it is in that many-sided and arduous undertaking
called "hunting a country."
Not that it is to be desired that a lady should take an active part in
the field management, like the well-meaning dame who is reported to
have said to an offender, "If I were a gentleman I would swear at you."
But without letting zeal outrun discretion, how much may a "mistress of
hounds" (as we will call her for brevity's sake) do to promote sport
and good feeling, besides deciding on the cut of a habit, and on who is
to be invited to wear the hunt colours.
"I have been a foxhunter myself, and I know how selfish they are," was
the remark once made to the writer by an old gentleman in Leicestershire,
and it must, in candour, be admitted that there was some truth in his
agreeable frankness.
Now, the mistress of the hounds should do all in her power to make
hunting acceptable, by trying to counteract the overbearing egotism
which no doubt is apt to be the effect of an absorbing pursuit on men's
characters.
She should bear in mind that hunting was, after all, made for man, and
not man for hunting, and that because some people are fortunate enough
to be born with a taste for that amusement, combined (which is
important) with the means of gratifying it, there is no reason why
others less happily gifted should be despised and sent to the wall.
The cause of fox-hunting was never yet furthered by votaries, who
appear to think everything else in the way of sport unworthy of thought
or notice. "Give and take," should be their motto, as well as that of
all conditions of men, in fact, "more so" considering that, in the
present day, most followers of hounds are indebted to others for their
fun, and do not own a yard of the land they ride over.
Many a man is "put wrong" for life, and hastily designated as a
"beastly vulpecide," who would have been pleased to find a fox for his
neighbours now and then, though not caring for the sport himself, if he
had been treated with the consideration generally shown in other
matters. Therefore, the lady we have in our mind will do all she can to
sympathise with the pursuits and amusements of others besides hunting
people, and will do her best to destroy the idea that a fine horsewoman
must necessarily be "horsey," or a lover of fox-hounds "doggy."
Since the extraordinary popularity of Whyte Melville's and Surtee's
novels and songs, a generation has grown up, who have flattered
themselves into the belief that the fact of riding after hounds at once
makes heroes and heroines of them, and that they are almost conferring
a benefit on their fellow-creatures by emulating Kate Coventry or the
Honourable Crasher.
Formerly people went hunting because they liked it, now with many it is
a means to an end, a passport to good society, a fashion rather than a
taste.
In the true interests of fox-hunting this is to be deplored, but as it
is impossible to separate the wheat from the chaff, a mistress must
content herself with smoothing over difficulties, with trying to avoid
collisions between those who _live_ in a country, and those who _hunt_
in it; and it will be her aim to make up for any roughness or seeming
neglect on the part of those who follow her husband's hounds.
As Jorrocks told James Pigg, "There must be unanimity and concord, or
we sha'n't kill no foxes."
A lady should herself set an example of courtesy when meeting at a
country house by dismounting and paying her respects to the hostess,
especially if the owner is not a habitual follower of the chase. She
may also sometimes make an opportunity to call on her way home for a
few minutes, not obviously with the desire of snatching a few
mouthfuls, like a hungry dog, and then tearing out again, but in a
neighbourly, pleasant fashion, for no one likes to be unmistakably made
a convenience of.
These little amenities go a long way towards what is called "keeping a
country together," and, when the lady at the head of affairs sets her
face against rudeness and "cliqueishness" there is likely to be less
friction between those whom a Melton sportsman once designated as the
"cursed locals," and the sporting gentry who are only birds of passage.
Politeness in the field is, of course, part of our ideal lady's nature,
and she could no more omit to thank the sportsman, farmer, or labouring
man, who showed her an act of civility, than if he were her partner at
a ball; though a story _is_ told of a gentleman in a crack country, who
said to a fair follower of the chase, that she was the forty-second
lady he had held a gate for, and the first who had said "Thank you."
But let us turn to the farmer, who with his farmyard gate in his hand,
is anxiously watching some young stock crowding against his valuable
ewes in an adjoining field, while a light-hearted damsel is leading a
select party over the wheat, so as to outstrip the riders who follow
the headland, on their way to draw a favourite covert. Possibly that
farmer in "a happier day than this," rode his own nag horse with the
best of them, and talked cheerily to his landlord about the cubs in the
big rabbit hole, and the partridge "nesses" in his mowing grass, but
now neither he nor "the Squire" can afford nag horses or shooting
parties. It is toil and moil, all work and no play, for the occupier;
and very likely the landlord has had to let the pleasant acres on which
he and his forefathers disported themselves, and feels shy of the
tenants for whom he is unable to do all they have been accustomed to.
It is in these cases that "the lady" will come to the front, with all
the tact and kindliness that is in her. Instead of rushing rudely past
him, she will pull up and listen to the poor man's remarks, and,
perhaps, help him to restrain his straying beasts. There are so many
occasions in a day's hunting, when a few minutes more or less are of
little importance, that it is a pity they should not be utilised in
promoting good feeling and mutual understanding, instead of being
wasted in grumbling at the huntsman, and abusing the sport he shows.
The mistress of the hounds can do something, surely, by precept and
example, to discourage the outrageous lavishness coupled with meanness,
which is the curse of modern life, and is nowhere more odious and out
of character than in the hunting field.
People who spend every sixpence they can afford, and some they cannot,
on their habits and boots and saddles, cannot, of course, produce one
of those useful coins at an opportune moment, but if they _could_ stint
themselves now and then of an extra waistcoat or tie, they would find
that the spare cash would go a long way towards mending a broken rail;
to say nothing of the different feeling with which the advent of hounds
would be regarded, if it meant money _in_ the pocket, instead of _out_
of it.
Munificence in the few, but meanness in the many, is, unfortunately,
too much the rule among hunting men and women. They find it apparently
much easier to write tirades to the _Field_ on the subject of "wire"
for instance, than to produce a few shillings and quietly get it taken
down, as in some instances could easily be done. A wooden rail costs
sixpence, a day's work half-a-crown, and it does seem rather pitiful,
that, considering the three millions more or less annually spent on
hunting in the United Kingdom, it should be found impossible, except in
a few well-managed districts, to provide funds for fencing.